


Like butterflies.

by Macabre74



Category: Big Bang (Band)
Genre: Angst, Artists, Fainting, Love at First Sight, M/M, Pickpockets
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-10
Updated: 2018-09-24
Packaged: 2018-12-25 21:06:01
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12044268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macabre74/pseuds/Macabre74
Summary: In which Jiyong is a dirty little thief, and Seunghyun is an artist flat out of inspiration. They offer each other just enough to keep going for another day.





	1. Colors in The Dark

The gallery opening was only weeks away, and it was safe to say that the event was the talk of the town. The artist was new on the scene, a Choi Seunghyun native to Seoul that'd recently retired from a musical career as a chart-topping rapper, of all things. The solo artist had dabbled in painting in the past, but after a piece he'd contributed to a charity auction commanded the highest price of the evening, it became a viable post-military career. Except now the show was nearing, and he still didn't have it, the crowning piece for the event.

* * *

"Thief! Stop him!"

Jiyong wasn't about to wait for stunned bystanders to react; he ran. Down the block, through a narrow alley, he ran. An open door led into an abandoned warehouse, and he immediately dove through it. Scrambling up a ladder, he shoved the hatch at the top upwards, thanking his stars that it wasn't locked. Escaping onto the rooftop, he closed the hatch quietly. Spotting a vent in the side of the maintenance shed, he pulled the ruby necklace from his pocket and shoved it through the grate. He'd come back for it later, when it was safer.

* * *

There was a loud clatter as the easel landed on its side, tubes of paint and brushes scattering in the aftermath of Seunghyun's outburst. The canvas was ruined, dirty water seeping into the edge of the frame, a thick black line jagged and ugly through the partially completed work. It was shit; just like one that'd come before it. Seunghyun didn't understand - he'd created the entire collection over the whirlwind summer, each piece coming as easily as breathing. Why was this one, the last one, so impossible to create? Disgusted, he stormed out of the studio.

_I need some air._

* * *

Shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie, Jiyong was the picture of brooding youth as he skulked down the crowded sidewalk, walking against the flow of traffic; a rebel. As usual for the past few days, the necklace he'd hidden was on his mind. How much food could he buy once he unloaded that thing? Shit, he'd have enough to get an apartment, a nice thick blanket. He'd been kicked out of the group home three months ago; he was sixteen and they'd emancipated him instead of trying to find yet another place to take the troubled teen.

* * *

The rapper-turned-artist wandered the city aimlessly; a chic black military-style trench framing his tall, slender form. He'd have to go back eventually, the paint would damage the flooring if he allowed it to dry there. He wasn't ready yet though, wasn't ready to face yet another failure. He allowed his mind to go blank, let the crowd propel him forward. A sea of nameless faces, he could be any one of them, any of them. So lost in his own disjointed thoughts, he almost didn't feel the hand slip into his pocket, in and out in the same breath. Almost.

* * *

Jiyong's eyes went round as saucers as a hand clamped around his wrist. He'd done it almost without thinking; the man had looked so out of it, like he wouldn't notice a train heading at him, let alone his wallet being lifted. He looked up, and it wouldn't have taken much to make him look pitiful. His features were sharpened by hunger, his dark eyes shining with shock and fear. His face was smooth, the lack of even a hint of stubble placing him in his teens, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, especially when paired with his short and skinny stature.

* * *

His only intention had been to scare the would-be thief; Seunghyun had lived in Seoul for far too long to take this sort of thing seriously enough to call for the police. He carried his identification and credit cards in an inner jacket pocket; the only things in his wallet were a modest amount of cash and a few membership cards. But looking at the hand caught in his grasp, it immediately struck him just how small it was. Following the arm up to the face it was inevitably attached to, Seunghyun could only stare. Colors. The boy was colors. 

* * *

Instinct told him to yank his arm free, to run. He was good at running, had to be. When your primary method of keeping yourself from starving to death was thievery, you quickly got good at running. But when those eyes found his, instinct failed him. His own brooding was mere petulant sulking in the face of such darkness; the tall man currently bruising his wrist was like something from a painting, a Bond villain, danger. Jiyong's heart beat seemed to slow, pounding in his ears. Gnawing hunger was forgotten for the first time in weeks as he simply stared. 

* * *

Seunghyun flipped open the wallet with his free hand, showing the boy he'd captured, or perhaps been captured by, the contents.

"There's about seven-hundred and fifty thousand or so won in here," he said, when he managed to find his voice. "You want it? It's yours." He tucked the wallet into Jiyong's hoodie, never breaking eye-contact. "There's twice that amount again if you come with me." He cringed inwardly at the wording. It sounded like he was propositioning the kid. And he was most definitely a kid. "I..." He started to explain, but the boy simply nodded. _Well, okay then._

* * *

Jiyong knew all about the bad men plaguing the streets of Seoul, he'd had stranger danger warnings instilled into him from toddler-hood. But he'd been in the system for most of his life; he knew that danger didn't always come from strangers. He'd honed his instincts as a matter of survival, and his instincts were telling him that this stranger, offering money in exchange for going back to his place, was no danger. Some might call that naive, but Jiyong didn't care what others thought. He fell into step beside the taller man, absently rubbing the ache from his wrist. 

* * *

After that awkward proposition, Seunghyun had opted to remain silent on the way back to the studio, lest he scare the boy off. Despite his tough-guy swagger and scruffy appearance, the boy reminded him of nothing so much as a butterfly, with his candy-pink hair and purple hoodie and scuffed red Doc Martens. A beautiful butterfly that'd lost his wings, and Seunghyun wondered what had gone so wrong in life that such a creature was confined to the overcrowded streets of Seoul instead of flying free, unfettered by the mundanity of life. "Through here," he finally said, unlocking the door. 

* * *

A sense of foreboding grew as they walked, slowly dissipating the confidence Jiyong had enshrouded himself in. He called himself paranoid, reminded himself of the promise of more money. But none of that mattered when they finally reached their destination. It was the warehouse where he'd stashed the necklace almost two weeks ago. Only it wasn't a warehouse any longer it seemed; it'd been transformed into a gallery of some sort, with canvases leaning against the walls, and expensive lighting. Jiyong backed away from the door, his heart pounding fast now. He didn't believe in coincidence, just instinct. He ran. 

* * *

Seunghyun felt it just before it happened; felt the shift in the wind, so subtle it was as if a butterfly had taken flight. He turned toward the boy, their eyes meeting for a split second before Jiyong moved, the drawstring of his hoodie whipping around with the force of his spin as he took off running down the alley, disappearing so swiftly Seunghyun could almost believe he'd imagined the boy, were it not for his missing wallet. Stepping inside, he began to silently, methodically clean the mess he'd left behind. Beauty was fleeting; like snowflakes, like youth. Like butterflies. 


	2. The Return of Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seunghyun's gallery opening is a stunning success, in more ways than one.

He wasn't dressed for this. Jiyong had returned to the gallery weeks later, looking to retrieve the rubies and go. How was he supposed to know that this would be the night of some fancy-pants opening? There was artwork everywhere, people everywhere. The ladder he'd climbed that day was gone, he'd need a new way to the rooftop. Part of him wanted to run again, come back another day. _What if he ran into the stranger again?_ Another part of him rebelled. What if he _didn't_ run into him again? He wished that thought didn't bother him quite so much.

* * *

The opening had been a success; Seunghyun had known it would be. It wasn't arrogance, not exactly. After suffering for so long, struggling to add the capstone to the collection, he'd finally had a breakthrough. The finished piece had come so easily he'd painted like a man possessed. Or perhaps a man obsessed, if he was being honest. Standing on the rooftop, looking out over the city, he tucked his hands into his pockets. Success felt good; his star was on the rise once more. Still, something was missing. Something pink, and purple, and red. Something beautiful. Something, or someone.

* * *

Jiyong stuck out like a sore thumb; he was aware of the stares from men and women alike, like he was some sort of alien in their midst. He scowled, self-conscious of just how many of them were looking, like their pampered selves had never seen a slightly malnourished teenage boy before. He'd come for the rubies, but decided to stay out of spite. There was a buffet; he'd help himself. Little sausages wrapped in crisp, hot cabbage on toothpicks. Prissy food, but hot and filling and so, so good. Oh, and was that free wine? He'd certainly take that.

* * *

The fire escape was a precarious climb, which had meant Seunghyun was fairly certain no one would follow him up. He couldn't disappear for too long, this was his party, after all. He'd just needed a moment to try and pull himself out of this funk he'd been in ever since he'd finished the painting that was getting such rave reviews already. Rejoining those gathered to sing his praises, Seunghyun pasted an enigmatic smile onto his face. His handlers said he should smile more, that his brooding look was foreboding. He had plenty to smile about, so they told him.

* * *

The stares hadn't abated, and Jiyong wondered sourly why no one had escorted him out of the party yet. Perhaps they simply enjoyed gawking; that's what happened at these kinds of gatherings, right? Get all dressed up, draped in silk and oversized gemstones just to gawk at paint spatters. Pathetic. He downed yet another glass of wine, the world swaying slightly as he abandoned the buffet table, deciding to have a look at the so-called art on display. The first piece he saw halted his inner sarcastic voice. This wasn't pretentiousness masquerading as art. It was his turn to stare.

* * *

Seunghyun wasn't entirely sure when he became aware of the whispers. They were talking about the model; about his beauty, about how he'd been so perfectly captured. He paid it little mind; how would they know? He hadn't seen the model since the day they'd met; didn't even have a photograph to reference as he'd worked. He'd memorized the boy's features, from the slope of his perfect brow to the brightness of his bistre-colored eyes. His small stature had been evident even in the bagginess of his worn yet trendy clothing, and Seunghyun had captured it all. He couldn't not.

* * *

From one canvas to the next, Jiyong was drunk on emotion. Each piece evoked feelings he hadn't remembered he was capable of. Who was this stranger, that could speak to him so eloquently without words? "Amazing," he slurred quietly, for it wasn't solely art that he was drunk on; those glasses of wine were sneaking up on him in a bad way.

"Talented, isn't he?" Jiyong turned, jumped really, at the sound of a voice coming from just behind him. The young man grinned, aware of what he'd done. "I'm Seungri," he introduced himself, unasked. "And you? Well, you're famous."

* * *

Standing near the central piece of the opening, Seunghyun answered questions from attendees and art critics, in his element as the conversation tended toward technique instead of emotion. Talking about his feelings wasn't something Seunghyun was never entirely comfortable with; as a rapper he'd had an outlet that afforded him some poetic license. On canvas, he was bared to the world. Mid-discourse, he looked in the direction of a cleared throat, words dying on his tongue. Seungri had that maddening grin on his face, but for once Seunghyun didn't care to smack him, instead looking to Seungri's immediate left. _Colors_.

* * *

Jiyong was steered around the gallery by the charismatic young man that'd latched onto him; he was the only one that wasn't staring strangely - and he was also conveniently keeping Jiyong upright with an arm over his shoulders. Jiyong was drunker than he'd ever been, but suddenly... he wasn't drunk enough. They'd arrived at the painting on everyone's lips, and Seungri pulled away, looking terribly smug. Jiyong couldn't breathe; where had the air gone? The subject of the painting was himself, there was no mistaking it. Overwhelmed, the heady wine finished its job, and Jiyong fainted in front of everyone.

* * *

The opening ended soon after that, Seunghyun graciously bidding guests farewell with as much haste as would be seemly. Seungri had carried the boy to the small painter's apartment at the rear of the gallery, and Seunghyun was still coming to grips with the idea that his muse had returned. He'd scoured the streets nightly looking; he'd ranted like a madman to Seungri about that night, about how he'd scared the boy off with his awkward. Somehow he'd returned to him; Seunghyun couldn't understand it, but one thing was certain - he wouldn't let those colors fly off again. Not ever. 


	3. Colors of Uncertainty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seunghyun has Jiyong in his sights, but with no certainty of how long that will last.

Jiyong was awake; if he was being entirely honest with himself, he'd been awake for quite some time. But the softness of the white bedclothes, their obscene thread-count piled around his bare shoulders... he didn't want to get up. He knew he'd passed out; he'd come to a few times in the interim. Once when his hoodie had been ever so carefully peeled over his head, and he recalled with a grimace that he'd thrown up on himself, as much from having stuffed himself with the fancy hors d'oeuvres as from the alcohol. Again while being stared at. Those eyes.

*** 

Seungri had assured him that he'd take care of directing the cleanup efforts in the gallery, he'd promised Seunghyun he'd get the paintings prepped for shipping to their new owners. Every single one had been sold, save the one of Jiyong. There were offers, of course, but he'd not been able to part with the piece in the end, graciously but firmly turning them down, until the point at which the offers had begun to border on the obscene, and Seunghyun had cloaked himself in that imperial darkness he usually hid from patrons, effectively ending their efforts via artist's fiat.

*** 

Jiyong clenched his eyes shut as he heard movement in the bedroom, the duvet bunched around his head in such a way that he couldn't see anything even if he'd wanted to. Mentally, he cursed himself for fainting, his pale cheeks flushing slightly as he recalled the moment in excruciating detail. He'd gone limp before he'd lost consciousness; the last thing he'd seen was dark, brooding eyes and chiseled cheekbones arranged into what could only be described as an expression of concern. Concern for him; honestly the idea was so foreign he could almost imagine it was simply wishful thinking.

*** 

Seunghyun knew exactly when the boy in his bed had woken up; his breathing had changed, the rise and fall of his Turkish cotton cocoon speeding up at first, likely nervousness, then it'd stopped altogether for a bit, which had him worried enough that he almost spoke out, but his breathing resumed after that, to his relief. He wasn't a patient man; he wanted the cocoon to open, his butterfly to emerge once more. But he recalled how easily startled the boy had been the first time they met, and so he schooled himself. He wouldn't ruin this. Not again.

*** 

The movement stopped, and Jiyong imagined he'd been left alone. He knew he couldn't stay here, hiding under the blanket like a naughty child forever, and it crossed his mind that he could make a dash for it if he only knew where his clothes were. Not for the first time since waking, he was acutely aware of his oh so bare skin against the sheets, the only things that remained were his faded purple boxers and his jewelry. None of it was real of course, just gaudy costume pieces that like a crow had caught his eye. Shiny things.

*** 

Seunghyun actually did leave the room; it didn't seem as if the boy was planning to rise any time soon, much to his chagrin. He went to the kitchen, starting up the Keurig and making coffee, a rich Italian blend that caressed the air with a scent that followed him back into the bedroom. Pausing in the doorway with a cup in each hand, he stood silent for a moment, watching as Jiyong struggled into his jeans. His clothes had been run through the washer and dryer as he slept, laid out conveniently nearby. _He was just going to leave_.

*** 

Jiyong smelled Seunghyun's return before he heard or saw it. Despite living on the streets and rarely having enough money to feed himself, Jiyong was something of a coffee aficionado, and would gladly spend his last on a cup of authentic European blended coffee over food or shelter. Sliding his jeans up over the subtle curve of his hips, he buttoned the fly without looking up, taking a seat on the edge of the bed. Knuckles gripping the blanket, he avoided Seunghyun's gaze by staring at his own lap. "Sorry for crashing your party. I uh... I should probably go."

*** 

Seungyun's smile was a bitter one, but his tone was soft as he spoke. "Coffee before you go? Be a waste of a cup, otherwise." He stepped further into the room, frowning slightly as Jiyong drew back on the bed, but he simply sat one of the steaming mugs on the bedside table before moving toward the window, the night sky and empty street mirroring his own bleak expression. "Plus, it's late. You might as well stay here tonight." He held up a hand, halting Jiyong's protest. "I'll be in the living room working. Just call if you need anything."

*** 

Jiyong had no intention of staying the night, not after he'd finally gathered the courage to leave the blankets. But one look at the forlorn expression on Seunghyun's face, and his resolve withered like dried petals. He was immediately reminded of that afternoon so many weeks ago, the moment when it'd first dawned on Seunghyun that he was about to run. The resignation that had almost changed his mind as he spun to flee. He couldn't do it again. And besides, it was just for one night, right? "Okay," he all but whispered, chewing his bottom lip as Seunghyun left.

*** 

Sitting on the couch, Seunghyun's coffee was left to get cold, and his open laptop also went ignored. Staring unseeingly at the ceiling, the silent artist's mind was nevertheless rioting behind those dark irides. _Jiyong_. He'd looked in the boy's wallet after emptying his pockets to wash the stained clothes. _Kwon Jiyong_. A faded school ID photo, with a name and birthdate that confirmed he was barely sixteen. He derided himself mentally. The boy was so young, how could he be stupid enough to scare him like that? He'd deserve it if Jiyong was gone come morning, colors and all.


	4. Chorus of Colors

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Seunghyun and Jiyong find a common interest, meanwhile Seungri's nagging leads to Seunghyun learning a sad truth about his butterfly's origins.

Sitting on the side of the bed, Jiyong cupped the mug in his hands, sipping the fragrant coffee as his thoughts ran rampant. Now that he'd decided to stay, what was he supposed to do? It was the middle of the night but he wasn't tired after his involuntary nap. Soon enough, the cup was empty. Rising from the bed, the barefoot, shirtless teen stepped out of the bedroom, caution written onto his youthful features. Padding down the hall, he came to the living room where Seunghyun worked, with dark circles under his eyes. "Uh... where should I put this?"

***

Eventually, Seunghyun had pushed himself out of his thoughts, focusing on his work instead. Now that the gallery opening had been such a resounding success, he was already in the process of locating and obtaining a bigger, better space for his next show. As much as he enjoyed his new career, however, he was still a musician at heart. So when Jiyong finally ventured out of the bedroom, it wasn't artwork Seunghyun was working on, but rather music software was up on his laptop. Glancing up as a shadow appeared, Seunghyun pulled out his earbuds. "Sorry, can you repeat that?"

***

Jiyong lifted the empty mug in his hand, then asked, more clearly this time, "Where should I put this?" He could faintly hear the music playing from where he was standing, but the instrumental playing didn't sound like anything he'd heard on the radio recently. Interested but still cautious, he went to the sink in the nearby kitchen nook to wash out the cup after Seunghyun pointed him in the right direction. Setting it aside to dry, he edged his way over toward the couch, leaning over the back of it to peer over Seunghyun's shoulder. "You make music, too?"

***

Barely paying attention to the computer screen, Seunghyun's eyes followed Jiyong as he headed for the kitchen, his jeans worn and faded as they sat low on his hips. Jiyong hadn't bothered putting a shirt on, exposing miles of flawless white skin. He was so simultaneously skinny and soft, Seunghyun couldn't help but wonder what that flat tummy would feel like against his own skin. He turned back to the laptop once Jiyong approached from behind, trying not to be distracted by the soft caress of breath against the back of his ear. "Not as often as I'd like, anymore."

***

"Let me," Jiyong said, reaching over to take one of the earbuds from Seunghyun's hand, inserting it into his ear to better hear the music playing. Arms crossed on the back of the couch, his expression was serious in profile, head nodding in time with the music. "There's the hook," he murmured at a certain point in the instrumental, exposing some passing familiarity with song composition. As the music came to an abrupt end, clearly unfinished as yet, Jiyong turned to Seunghyun, looking somewhat surprised. "Not bad. If your painting thing doesn't work out, maybe you could be a musician!"

***

"Maybe?" Seunghyun echoed ironically. Even though Jiyong obviously understood Korean, he mostly spoke in English, and Seunghyun took that cue, responding in kind. He clicked the right arrow, and another instrumental began to play, this one faster than the previous one, and he watched for Jiyong's response from the corner of his eye. No one else had heard these beats as yet; Seunghyun was an artist and expectedly sensitive about exposing any work that wasn't absolutely perfect to the world, but he was also expectedly vain and wanted to see this boy's reaction to his work. "What about this one?"

***

At some point during the evening, Jiyong had migrated from standing behind the couch to being seated beside Seunghyun. At some point, Seunghyun had made more coffee. At some point, the middle of the night had become early morning. And inevitably, at some point, Jiyong had fallen fast asleep. It'd been an eventful evening, to say the least, and the brief nap he'd had could only carry him so far. He'd nodded off against Seunghyun's shoulder, the softness of his sweater better than a pillow, and at some point, he'd wound up sleeping peacefully with his head on Seunghyun's lap.

***

Inspired by Jiyong's infectious energy, Seunghyun worked tirelessly, finishing a song whose ending had eluded him, and he also started another, with a heavy bass and flirtatiously complicated notes that flitted here and there like restless butterflies yet somehow just worked. Seunghyun briefly considered more coffee, but looking down at Jiyong, he was loathe to move the boy from where he was sleeping. One hand lightly stroked his hair, and he marveled at how soft the chemically-treated tresses were, so pretty and pink and perfectly suited to such an angelic face. A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts.

***

Jiyong woke to the sound of voices. Briefly, he frowned; he'd fallen asleep thanks to the softness of Seunghyun's sweater tickling his cheek, but now he was alone on the couch with a pillow and a blanket. He didn't sit up immediately, instead listening in on the conversation happening in the kitchen when he heard his name mentioned.

"...not a puppy, you can't just decide to keep him, hyung!"

"I don't think he has anywhere else to go, Seungri. So why not let him stay here?"

"What about school? He's what, twelve? Where are his parents? Did you kidnap him??"

***

Ignoring Seungri, Seunghyun traced his finger around the edge of his mug, cell-phone to his ear after dialing out. "I'm calling on behalf of Kwon Jiyong. He won't be in today. ...That's right, he's feeling ill. ...No, I don't think it's serious. ...Yes, I'll be sure he has a note on Monday. ...Thank you." Hanging up, Seunghyun's expression was a bit stricken. "That was his school. They thought I was calling from the orphanage; apparently, he doesn't have any parents. So what's that you were saying about sending him away?" Seungri was wordless, he'd rarely seen Seunghyun get so worked up.


End file.
